


The Second Generation Detective

by amandaandersson



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: F/M, Genderbending, Original Character(s), Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock in Love, Story: The Adventure of the Three Garridebs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 01:09:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5688751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amandaandersson/pseuds/amandaandersson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story has emerged from a school project within the Sherlock Holmes fandom where we were asked to write an original story or rewrite an already existing one. This is a remake of "The Three Garridebs" by Arthur Conan Doyle written in four perspectives.</p><p>Authors: Amanda Andersson, Miriam Olsson, Johanna Heinesson and Julia Håkansson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Second Generation Detective

**Chapter I – Shirley Holmes**  
  
The luminous bright yellow light was peeking through the grey blinds in my tiny bedroom on Baker Street. It was a wonderful sunny morning, seldom seen in this grey and gloomy country. The bright sunlight was what woke me up from my peaceful sleep. As I rubbed my eyes and yawned, thinking that a few more hours of sleep would not hurt, the scent of freshly made coffee reached my nose. Picturing the hot, aromatic coffee in my mind, another smell was picked up by my nose; burnt toast. I rushed out of bed, only wearing my lavender coloured pyjamas, and ran into the kitchen where I found my father and Dr. Watson. They were deeply engaged in their conversation, not at all distracted by the odour of the burnt toasts. I quickly pushed down the button to release the toasts from the new, stainless steel toaster. The sigh released from my mouth was loud enough to disturb father and Dr. Watson’s conversation.  
“Really, father?” I yelled.  
“This is the fourth toaster in three months! You should be thankful that I woke up this time, so you could avoid setting the kitchen on fire again” I added while crossing my pale arms over my chest.  
“We are sincerely asking for your apology, Shirley” Dr. Watson said.  
“You know how your father and I always get carried away with our fascinating conversations. Sometimes it feels like we are in an isolated bubble, unable to hear or react to anything around us” he continued with a smile, causing his wrinkles to deepen around his eyes and mouth.  
Father and Dr. Watson made their way into the sitting room to continue their intriguing conversation as I prepared my simple breakfast. I was making my way back into my room with my steaming cup of coffee and my toast, to watch the news, when I suddenly overheard father and Dr. Watson.  
“Have you ever heard of the name Garrideb?” father eagerly asked Dr. Watson. There was a second of silence before father, in his common arrogant manners, continued, “Well, if you can lay your hand upon a Garrideb, there is money in it.”  
The short distance to my room felt like a mile, as I was trying to walk as slowly as possible, hoping to be able to eavesdrop and gain some more information about the name Garrideb, as well as the new case that seemed to have fascinated father and Dr. Watson. Unfortunately, I got into my room without any new information about the name.  
I turned on the three TV-screens hanging on my light blue wall, above my desk. The sound from the different news channels started to mix together, as my mind wandered off thinking about the name Garrideb. Who was this person and what did ‘if you can lay your hand upon a Garrideb, there is money in it’ mean?  
I considered asking father about the new case, but quickly changed my mind when I realized that I would have to explain the eavesdropping.  
All of a sudden I heard the front door open and close rapidly. I quickly went out of my room to see if father and Dr. Watson had company, but they were nowhere to be seen. When I realized that I was alone in the apartment, the suspicion surrounding the name Garrideb vanished. I wanted to make the most out of the time I had been given to be alone, so I decided to put on some loud music and get myself ready for the day.  
On my way back from the shower, which had turned into a karaoke and dancing marathon, I walked past father’s darkened office. The door was left open, which it normally never was, causing a strobe of light to hit the mahogany desk. The events from earlier this morning crossed my mind and I decided to see if he had left anything to bring some clarity to the name Garrideb. At first, I was reluctant to enter the office, but then I remembered all of the times that father had invaded my privacy by checking my room, computer and phone without bothering to ask for permission, or even apologizing afterwards.  
As I sat down by the dark brown mahogany desk, the computer screen lit up. Expecting to see a picture of father wearing a hat and holding a pipe, which was his desktop background, I was positively surprised when an e-mail from a Mr. Nathan Garrideb showed up on the screen instead.

_Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes.  
_   
_I am contacting you since I am in need of your remarkable, world-known detective services. What I am going to present to you is a most peculiar case._   
_I hold an uncommon last name, Garrideb. Due to it being a rare name I thought it would be easy to find others with the same name. This has unfortunately not been the case, and therefore I am contacting you._   
_The mystery started when I was approached by a man, Mr. John Garrideb, from the United States, who claimed that there is another Garrideb in England. If we are able to find this third Garrideb, we are entitled to a $5 million inheritance each from a distant relative in the United States called Mr. Alexander Hamilton Garrideb._   
_We would be honoured if you were interested in helping us to find the third and last Garrideb._

_Kind Regards_   
_Nathan Garrideb_

The realization of the existence of multiple Garrideb’s made me wonder how difficult it could be to find the last one, considering the unusual name. I quickly googled the names. The search showed that Mr. Nathan Garrideb had been a London resident for multiple years, living in the same apartment at 136 Little Ryder Street, W. Mr. John Garrideb, on the other hand, was a bit of a mystery. He had been a counsellor at Law in Moorville, Kansas, but the search did not show any recent records of the employment. The thought of this man, Mr. John Garrideb, suddenly showing up, telling Mr. Nathan Garrideb that there is an enormous inheritance waiting for them, made me extremely suspicious. The main thing I found questionable about John Garrideb, was that he did not have any recent data about his employments or residency available on the web.  
The captivating mystery of the Garrideb’s felt like a case worth looking into. A case that would be solved by either me or father.  
“The hunger for mysteries has been passed on in the Holmes family” I thought to myself, as I decided to look further into the mystery of the three Garrideb’s.

 

**Chapter II – Sherlock Holmes**

As we slowly made our way down Edgware Road in midst of bustling rush-time lunch-hour, the sun merrily sent its rays down on the jam-packed streets. The cars responded to the sun’s joyfulness by shooting dancing beams of reflection in all different directions, creating an impressive illusion of a glistening web.  
“So, you see Watson, the story is rather intriguing” I said triumphantly.  
“Mr. Nathan Garrideb’s initial email did not arouse much more than a vague interest on my part. However, Mr. John Garrideb’s phone call this morning certainly threw a new light on matters” I added enthusiastically as I quickly opened up the notepad and glanced at the notes I had hastily jotted down during my conversation with Mr. John Garrideb.  
“Now, let see” I mused, “why would anyone try to make out that they have recently arrived from the States when it is obvious that they have been in the country for a long time?” I asked Watson imploringly.  
Watson leaned back and made himself comfortable in the backseat of the taxi as he listened attentively to Holmes.  
“His accent” I continued, “Although definitely American it had been polished and smoothed to a degree that takes more than a few months, maybe even years to accomplish.”  
“And why on earth did he say he works as a Counsellor at Law in Moorville, Kansas” I cried out, ”when a simple Google search shines a clear light on the lie.”   
The taxi turned left into Little Ryder Street where the windows glistened like diamonds in the sun on the otherwise grey and gloomy dwellings, as we proceeded down the street toward our destination.  
“Well Watson, this affair is most peculiar and Mr. John Garrideb’s erratic behaviour this morning leaves me having to question his motives. I am curious, Watson – just curious!”  
“About what?”  
“Curious - as to why he was genuinely upset and blatantly angry that Nathan Garrideb had requested our services. Curious - about his obvious relief when it became clear to him that we seemed to buy into his ridiculous lies. Five million dollars at stake here, Watson, and a single lie discovered is enough to create a doubt in any truth. Would you not agree, Watson?”  
As the taxi came to a halt outside the house where our client inhabited the ground floor flat, I declared to Watson, “Let us get going, old man, we need to find out if this other fellow also is part of this fraud. This case may very well be worth our attention, Watson” I said with a smile and felt the familiar stirring of excitement deep within me.  
As we were buzzed into the large, red brick clad Georgian building that bathed in a warm golden light I managed to get a glimpse of our clients’ huge sitting room through the large bay window at the right-hand side of the front door. We proceeded into a vast downstairs hallway with beautifully laid black-and-white tiled floor, at the rear of the room a large staircase furnished with a red deep-piled carpet and a lustrous ebony black banister provided the way up to the first floor apartments. I could not help but drawing a sigh of relief. Even though it was evident that the house had been renovated in order to accommodate the growing need for smaller apartments in London, this house had been salvaged from the hands of money greedy developers that seemed to have no interest in keeping original features when remodelling.  
My thoughts were left dwindling when our client opened the door to his apartment.  
“I am so very pleased that you could take your time to see me, Mr. Holmes” Mr. Nathan Garrideb exclaimed as he grabbed hold of my hand and thrust it in a surprisingly feeble manner.  
“Please, follow me” he said as he paved the way through a zigzag maze, consisting of stacks upon stacks of books. Never before had I laid my eyes on that many books in a private dwelling.  
“You are a man of literature, Mr. Garrideb” I proclaimed as we were invited to take a seat in the corner sofa, situated in front of the bay window.  
“Well, I do find an intense joy in having my world filled with adventures and history, and since my retirement as a curator at the British Library this is what keeps me getting up in the mornings.”  
“I see” I mused as I surveyed my client’s most eccentric residence. The walls were lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling, overflowing with volumes of varied and diverse literary works. Where the bookshelves proved not to offer enough space there were neat stacks of books positioned in front. At closer inspection, I deduced that what I initially had conceived as unorganised mess was in fact a methodical cataloguing, fooling the eye simply due to lack of space.  
“You see, Mr. Holmes, I have so much work to do here that it occupies my entire being and I never feel even tempted to deviate from my calling” Mr. Nathan Garrideb said and continued in a wistful voice, “That is why it would be marvellous if there is any truth in the American gentleman’s promise. Do you think there is, Mr. Holmes?”  
“Well, there are a few things we need to take into consideration and I need to ask you a few questions in order to establish a clear picture. Have you ever heard of this man before?”  
“Never. He contacted me, out of the blue, last Tuesday.”  
“Is he aware that you have been in contact with me?”  
“Yes, when I told him about it this morning he got terribly upset and accused me for not trusting him. However, he called me back after he had spoken to you and seemed to be at ease again.”  
“Has he come with any suggestions as to how you are to find the third Garrideb?”  
“None.”  
“Has he asked you to do something, borrowed money from you or anything else?”  
“No, nothing at all!”  
“Do you have any volumes in your collection of value?”  
“Well, I have a good collection of volumes but it is not particularly valuable, nothing that makes me fear a burglary or theft, if that is what you are implying."  
“How long have you been living here?” I asked, with a brooding sensation of bewilderment.  
“Since my retirement five years ago.”  
A loud and commanding knock on the front door suddenly interrupted us, and the door flung wide open by our American fellow who entered the apartment in great excitement with a broad grin on his face.  
“Here it is” he bursted out, “I have found our missing threesome! Take a look at this ad from today’s Daily Mail” he continued as he handed a torn out newspaper ad to Mr. Nathan Garrideb.

_Howard Garrideb & Associates_   
_Chartered Accountants_   
_Seeking a junior accountant, for day-to-day handling of sales and purchase legers._   
_Some previous knowledge of fiscal period closure is desired, however, not necessary._   
_Please apply to: Howard Garrideb & Associates, Chartered Accountants, Grosvenor Building, Aston_

“That is marvellous!” Mr. Nathan Garrideb cried out as he had finished reading.  
“Is it not just!” said the American and continued hurriedly “I have already taken the liberty and set up an appointment for you to meet with him this afternoon in his office. There is a train leaving from Euston at 16.49 that will take you to Birmingham in just over two hours. If you grab a taxi from the station you will be in his office right on time for the meeting at 19.30.”  
I had watched my clients face transform from glowing childlike happiness into exuding a worrisome and sombre expression  
“You mean I have to go and see him?” he now said in a flat, questioning voice.  
“Well, I do think that would be for the best, do you not agree, Mr. Holmes? I feel certain that Howard will find it easier to digest the news coming from your lips Nathan, than he would from some strange American.”  
I nodded my head in agreement and as my client looked at me he said “Ok, I will do it if you insist, Mr. Holmes.”  
“Smashing” said the American. “That is settled then! Give me a ring, Nathan, once you have met Howard. I got to get going now” he continued as he started to make his way. As he opened the door he turned around and said enthusiastically “We are so close now Nathan! Imagine the riches we will have this time tomorrow!”  
“I guess we should get going as well, leaving you to get ready for your trip” I said and stood up.  
“I guess so” Mr. Nathan Garrideb said ruefully, “I do wish I did not have to do this! I never leave my apartment!”  
“You never leave your apartment?”  
“No, well, once or twice a month to buy a pint of milk - if I happen to run out before the next Waitrose delivery. But other than that, no, I do not go out.”  
“Well, goodbye, Mr. Garrideb, and I certainly hope your journey will be well worth it.”  
As we made our way down the pathway onto the pavement I stole a look at Watsons puzzled expression. “So, Watson, have you managed to work it out yet?”  
“No, I have not got the faintest idea.”  
“Did you not notice something strange with the advert?”  
“I did notice that the word ‘ledger’ was misspelt.”  
“Well, that is something, Watson. You do still improve” I said mischievously and continued, “What is a fiscal year, Watson?”  
“It is an accountancy term.”  
“Right, an accountancy term used in the States, not in the UK!” I proclaimed cheerfully and continued “Soon we will be seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.”

   


**Chapter III – Georgina Lestrade-Holmes**

Outside of Baker Street, I recognized the beautiful sound of the Francois Tourte bow gently caressing the fragile strings as if Mendelssohn himself whispered the magnificent melody of ‘Lieder’ in the nightfall. As always, I was struck worried by the sound of ever so gentle tones from Sherlock’s violin.  
On my way up to the apartment I found myself hoping that his need of reflection through an instrument was because of his usual misunderstandings with our daughter, but little did I know then of what the arising night would bring our way. When you are married to a man who throws away perfectly edible groceries to make room for jars of eyeballs in the fridge, you soon become accustomed to expect anything.  
The moment I put the keys in the door, Mendelssohn’s whispers came to an end.  
“We are up against a very hard case” Holmes uttered quietly, standing casually in front of me in the doorway, and trying to hide his transparent contentment for yet another case that had fallen in his lap.  
“I would not ask for your help if you were not in possession of a weapon. I fear you are a necessity for what must be done” he continued, in a familiar discourteous manner.  
By the time Sherlock had made his case clear with his talent for explicit details, we were sitting in our chairs in front of the fire drinking black chai tea. I was startled by the ambiguous clues he had presented, and I could not deduce anything other than personal suspicion on Sherlock’s part.  
“I am afraid I cannot see where you are heading with this, Sherlock” I said, noticing how this one single line was one of the most common when in conversation with my husband.  
“Well, you see, I have identified Mr. John Garrideb, Counsellor at Law. As it turns out, I fear he is an acquaintance to you. I assume you know of reckless James Winter, Morecroft, or Killer Evans?”  
“I know the investigation by heart. Born in Chicago, shot three men cold-heartedly in the US without conviction. Changed his name and looks, and arrived in London nineteen eighty…”  
Sherlock interrupted my thorough description of the evil, yet mastermind of a man in question.  
“I took the liberty to look up his register profile after an enlightening phone call from the lady living next door to Mr. Nathan Garrideb, down at Ryder Street.” Ignoring my outrage expression due to the interruption and once again logging into my home account to access the police register, he continued,  
“You see, shortly after the visit to Mr. Nathan Garrideb’s apartment, I received a phone call from a lady who claimed to live next door to him. The lady was in genuine shock and horrification due to the abrupt appearance of Mr. John Garrideb at the scene earlier today. Apparently she recognized him from six years ago as a dear friend to a Waldron, former owner of the apartment 136 Little Ryder Street.”  
Sherlock took a sip of his cup of tea and carried on.  
“Waldron disappeared six years ago and no one has heard from him since. He was a short, dark man, bald with a distinctive beard. And according to Daily Mail at the time, the man Killer Evans shot, Roger Prescott, was a man with the same appearance.”  
“I see what you are implying, but you should know by now that what you are so eagerly presenting, is no crucial evidence for an arrest.” Sherlock gazed at me with amusement.  
“This is why being married to you never gets old. I have handed you the clues, and yet you fail to use them.”  
I was about to leave the room in silent fury since I have learned that outbursts only amuse him more, when he stopped me with a line that I had heard oh so many times before.  
“Let me explain it to you, dear” he said softly, adding the last word as an apology that I would never hear a word of. I turned around and demonstrated my anger by refusing to return to my chair beside him.  
“If, per say, Waldron’s real name was Roger Prescott, and Killer Evans shot him dead six years ago, do you believe in the coincidence of Killer Evans’ Garrideb affair to empty the apartment, formerly owned by the man he murdered?”  
“But what is he after?”  
“Well, this is where you and your gun comes in handy, we must go on a Ryder Street Adventure for the conclusion. Shirley will be home at 11 o’ clock, and we must be on our way within the hour.”  
We arrived to 136, Little Ryder Street at 8 o’ clock, when the whole of London had been swallowed by darkness. The newly renovated building we approached casted dark shadows on the pavement that we strolled down along.  
Sherlock typed the buzz code without hesitation, as if he had lived in the building since the beginning of time. He knocked with his routine rhythm on the door of the terrified lady whom we had spoken to earlier in the day. I noticed the genuine horror she expressed as she had a short talk with Sherlock. He expressed gratitude for the received text of the buzz code, and the doorway meeting led to an exchange of keys.  
“Thanks for your generosity, all will be settled soon” Sherlock promised, and the door shut close.  
When we got inside the apartment of Mr. Nathan Garrideb, I found myself in an ocean of literature in which I felt the urge to drown myself in many times over. I lit the flashlight on my phone to try to make my way through the titles, but Sherlock hushed me, and pointed to the black corner sofa under the bay window as our only possible hiding place.  
Struggling to make room for me, Sherlock whispered his suspicion of what was to come.  
“Killer Evans was eager to get Mr. Nathan Garrideb out of his apartment, and the question one must ask is why. From the conversation I had with Nathan this afternoon, it seemed to me that he merely went outside to purchase a pint of milk. This quest demanded thorough and solid planning, and the invention of the Garrideb inheritance was remarkably enticing to lure Mr. Nathan Garrideb all the way to Birmingham”.  
Sherlock resembled a nervous man, and I wondered in silence if it had anything to do with his partner in crime being absent the night these events took place.  
“Is it because of the collection? Is he after a valuable volume?” I whispered, slightly upset about having to take the backseat of the investigation.  
“It pains me to say that I am not certain of how this will play out just yet. However, we can exclude the option of a particular agenda related to Mr. Nathan Garrideb himself. I had similar thoughts of a specific valuable volume, but I fear and suspect that we are in for a more serious matter than so.” Sherlock inhaled as if he were to reveal a big dark secret, and continued.  
“Roger Prescott’s involvement and disappearance, and Killer Evans’ well thought out plan to get into the apartment alone points to something of value, you got that right. But what that is, I cannot wrap my head around, and we must wait patiently for the secret to reveal itself.”  
After two hours of hurtful waiting and dodging behind the sofa, I started to worry about Shirley coming home to an empty apartment getting dead worried for her parents. I could barely sense my knees, and Sherlock had been silent and still as a stuffed bird the last hour. To both my relief and fearfulness, the door sprung open and there was a glimpse of light in the ceiling. As expected, Killer Evans entered the apartment. He shut the door roughly, and took course for his treasure. I could hear his determined footsteps heading in the other direction when Sherlock gave me a sudden nod to imply that our time had come. We stood up cautiously, still unseen to our enemy’s eyes, when the door opened for a second time, as tender as one could imagine. I was suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling of surprise as Shirley emerged in the doorway, and Killer Evans’ rummaging around stopped in a split second. Once again I could hear his footsteps, but this time they changed direction.  
“Run!” Sherlock and I cried loudly in choir when we suddenly faced Killer Evans.  
If you were close to Little Ryder Street this particular night, you would hear two deafening shots fired from two different rifles, followed by a woman’s cry of immediate suffering.

 

**Chapter IV – John Watson**

It may have been a comedy, or it may have been a tragedy. It cost one man his reason, it cost one woman a blood-letting, and it cost yet another man the penalties of the law. Yet there was certainly an element of comedy. Well, you shall judge for yourselves.  
It had all been very discombobulating, but after an acutely short night’s sleep, Holmes was sat, or actually slouched down, in the oxblood coloured Chesterfield-armchair. His legs rested upon the foot stool, and against his right temple he held a glass of brandy, leaning his entire head heavily towards it. I had just finished pouring myself a cup of tea from the kettle, not being too fond of the 10 o’ clock drinking habit Holmes had adopted this morning, when I heard a deep sigh from him.  
“You know, we were all rather lucky last night. Well, not you, since you missed out on all the fun” he said in a tone that could be misheard as sarcastic.  
“Please, do tell” I answered as I sat down in Lestrade’s not-as-fancy velvet-lined armchair beside him.  
“You see, both Shirley and I got out of it all without a scratch, and my dear, dear Georgina” he said softly with a slight pause, “actually managed really well, she impressed me!” he finished with an uplifting voice. I was slightly surprised that he called Lestrade by her first name, which he rarely did. I raised one eyebrow at him, and he continued  
“The bullet luckily only hit the outer part of her left shoulder. It is one of the few places on the human body that has large enough muscle pads that can take a wound of impressive visual vulgarity that is not necessarily lethal. As you might realize, an inch to the right and we would have been quite unlucky. There are huge blood vessels in a human being’s shoulder, as well as lots of delicate nerves and a very complex ball-and-socket joint, that no surgeon on Earth would be able to put back together. At least not after it had been smashed by a bullet…” I had to admit I had not listened fully as concentrated as I usually did. Instead, I was observing Holmes as he spoke, brisk and confident of what he had to say as always, but the look on his face was different. Usually excited over what came out of his own mouth, but his eyes were now tracing along the gaps of the floor boards.  
“Holmes” I said with a calm voice, “are you ok?”  
“Why would I not be?”  
“I would never call you a marrying man, Holmes, but yet here you are! Now, the truth is that any normal husband would at the very least be a bit stirred up after yesterday’s events. So I will ask you again, are you ok?”  
“I am fine” he muttered as convincingly as he could manage, but I knew him better than that. Holmes would never admit that he had indeed been distressed of the thought of what might have happened last night, but I could see the truth on the look of his wandering eyes.  
The conversation went on, and Holmes told me of the split second where no one knew who had been shot. However, the facts were that Lestrade and Evans had drawn their guns almost at the exact same moment. Evans had hit Lestrade in the left shoulder as she emerged from behind the sofa, followed by Lestrade shooting a second later at the stumbling Evans, managing to hit his gluteus maximus, also known as his bottom. This remained the most bizarre mystery, as to how Evans had so beautifully accomplished to fall over that quickly so that Lestrade managed to hit his behind of all places. It certainly lacked the dramatic gravitas, but did not fail to amuse us all, and I was certainly happy that both Lestrade and Killer Evans had been terrible marksmen that night. They were both kept at St Bartholomew’s Hospital, at different wards of course. The doctors, Lestrade and I had all insisted on that both Shirley and Holmes went home to get some rest as soon as things had settled and doctors had confirmed that Lestrade was in fact fine and would be fully recovered. Shirley had laboriously explained how she had got into the building, which was not much of an enigma at all. She had simply gotten home, wondered where her parents were, and turned on Find My Friends on her iPhone to track down where they were. When she saw which address it was, she had hurried over there as fast as she could, just in time to spot Killer Evans opening up the front door. As quietly as humanly possible, she had prowled in behind him and then seen him type in the buzz code.  
However, over to the most exciting revealing of them all; what was so important for Killer Evans to get to inside the flat of 136 Little Ryder Street? It turned out that the apartment was in possession of a secret safe located under the floor. Holmes explained how he had found this out by noticing a slight angle on the room’s wooden flooring.1 This was all due to the heavy weight of the steel safe, which luckily was not too hard to open due to the fingerprints still being there on the 4 numbers of the passcode in use. Inside the safe laid at least a dozen of pens, neatly packed in a small box each, but they were not just any pens. After a quick google they had realised they were in a matter of fact Caran d’Ache Gothica pens. Each side of the hexagon-shaped pen portrayed a gothic window of rosette and fleurs de lis, which had been crafted in luminous colours. There were only 1040 made, so rare that there was only one made per year, sold at a whopping price of 270 000 pounds each. This was truly a moment where you could safely state that the pen was mightier than the sword.


End file.
